


The Real Question

by im_ridiculous



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Total Fluff, i hate myself just a little right now, nobody asked for this, self-awareness ftw, there are f-bombs if strong language isn't your jam, wtaf am i doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 18:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_ridiculous/pseuds/im_ridiculous
Summary: "Here's the thing: he resents the inference that he is an idiot."Or: what if they've actually been talking to each other about All The Things this whole time? Otherwise what were all those therapists and marriage counsellors and sports psychologists and mental prep coaches actually for?





	The Real Question

**Author's Note:**

> So. I don't know wtaf I am doing here. I haven't written fic in years, and I always swore - swore - that rpf was a violation and a squicky nightmare. But despite my self-loathing, here it is: the fluffy Pyeongchang self-awareness fic that absolutely no-one asked for and that absolutely no-one needs, least of all Tessa and Scott, to whom I am so very sorry. Not beta'd, not entirely sure it's not a total mess... it's just where I ended up. Join me in hell, won't you?

Here's the thing: he resents the inference that he is an idiot.

It slots into place in his mind with a thunk, fifteen minutes after he leaves her at her room in the Pyeongchang village so they can each take a quick nap between media calls.

 _That's_  what it is. Because whether the interviewers come right out and ask The Question, or if they _wink wink nudge nudge_ around it as if that's somehow less gauche than actually asking outright, every damn version of that damn question has reignited and stoked an old irritation. It's been smouldering for days now, blazing occasionally like a solar flare in botched talking points and diva snaps.

But it's not until now, walking back to his room and turning the words over in his mind again - _"So... have you guys ever dated? You know everyone on the internet thinks you should be a couple, right?"_  - that he realises what exactly it is that's been needling him this whole time.

He resents the inference that he is an idiot.

He might not be Tessa-levels of vast brilliance, but he isn't a fucking idiot.

Of course he knows what they look like to the rest of the world. He's not _blind_. They know what they're _doing_  when they do this shit. He's not a fucking idiot.

And he knows how he feels. Of course he does! All these people implying he can't see what's in front of his face. Like he's a lovelorn teenager incapable of self-awareness, which he is not (... anymore). Like he's not a thirty year old man who's been through more couples therapy than dysfunctional dipshits three times his age. _Of course_ he knows how he feels! And of course they've fucking talked about it.

Because that's another thing, he mutters to himself, pulling open the door to the landing so hard that it bounces back off the wall: of _course_ they've talked about it! How could they have avoided that for 20 years? Of _course_ they know. Or at least, they know as much as it's possible to know. The _knowing_  wasn't the hard part. The hard part was _what to do_ , with the heft of it all.

Because what they feel is huge. It's enormous. It's twisty and fluctuating and complicated and full of history, piling layer on layer of fondness over pain and hard work over disappointment and joy over despair.

It is best friends and it is chemistry and it is partners in crime and it's being just so damn good together on the ice and it's being allies against a common enemy in all things and it _is_  business partners, damn it, that part is just as true as the rest of it. And it is, yes, the romantic part of it, too. Or it could be. It's the potential. But it cheapens the sheer hard work of coming to terms with all of it, in _his_ humble opinion, that other people - all the normal, unlucky people who don't have a Tessa - can only believe the romantic part is real.

What the two of them know, is that it is certainly, certainly love but also impossibly, impossibly more vast than that... And the idea that they have skated together for 20 years and won five Olympic medals and not had nervous breakdowns while somehow _never talking to each other about all that_  is... well it's hilarious, frankly. It's ridiculous. But it also really pisses him off.

What do people think all those therapists and marriage counsellors and sports psychologists and mental prep coaches were _for_ , if not to help them deal with the fact that they love each other, have oftentimes _been in love with_  each other, but that their relationship didn't get to be about being in love if they wanted to win.

 _He_  knows all that. _People_ don't know anything about anything. He's not a fucking idiot, for fuck's sake.

He's still stewing about it when he reaches the door to his room and freezes, turning the key between his fingers, not going in.

He's really starting to get worked up about it when he turns on his heel and starts retracing his steps.

He's positively steaming by the time he hammers on her door and she pulls it open, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him.

"I'm not a fucking idiot, Tess. Y'know?"

*

She blinks, hand still on the door handle, and he huffs past her into the room.

"Um, yes? I know you're not an idiot?"

She closes the door as he paces in circles of increasing agitation.

"Maybe I'm not, like, _nerdy academic_ ,- " he makes exaggerated jazz hands, "-but I am not a fucking idiot. And I'm _emotionally intelligent_ , goddamit. I am emotionally mature, Tess" he nods, chopping his right hand into his left palm for emphasis. "That was fucking hard, too, learning that shit! Talking about it! But they talk about us, and _to_ us, as if it's just never _occurred_ to us, as if it's just simply never flitted into our _teeny tiny deluded minds_ -" he waggles his fingers at his temples, "-that _maybe_ we have chemistry and _maybe_ might consider dating!"

He wheels around with a pantomime grin, feigning surprise as if he's only just realised she's there. "Hey Tess! Hey! I've just had a totally random idea! I know this is out of the blue after 20 years together and a career built on smouldering on-ice sexuality and endearing off-ice chemistry, but now that that journalist has pointed it out I realise there might be something here! How bout it! Dating! Us! What do you think?!"

The fond smile that's been curling across her mouth and crinkling into her eyes explodes into laughter then, and she doubles over, wheezing. He can feel his grin sliding into something warmer and more genuine just gazing at her. He can't help it. He loves nothing in this world so much as making her laugh.

"What on earth has happened to you?" she gasps between giggles. "Are you ok?"

"Of course I'm ok!" he says, ramping up the vaudeville again, this time solely to keep her laughing. "I've got a whole fucking armada-"

"Ooh, _armada_! Very non-idiot word."

"Damn right - I've got a whole fucking _armada_  of mental health professionals dedicated to helping me navigate our relationship and I still somehow summon the strength to take the ice! That is the literal definition of ok, Tess! But somehow, everyone still thinks I'm fucking clueless about myself and you and us and whatever-else-the-fuck because apparently everyone thinks I am just that stupid! Or that I don't know what sex looks like, I guess, because everyone seems to think I need them to point out to me what I've been doing with you on the ice for the past 20 yea- ok not 20, there actually were some early years there when I absolutely did not know what sex looked like and was absolutely not trying to do anything on the ice with you but you get what I'm saying here, right?"

She's crying with laughter now, trying to speak; doing that thing where she pulls it together for three seconds before collapsing in giggles again. He wonders vaguely if it still counts as an elusive example of his favourite sound if there's hiccuping involved.

"All these people on social media like, 'ah Scott, hate to break it to you but you're in love with Tessa.' _Like that had never crossed my mind_. Like this is _brand new information_. All these journalists trying to find a classy way to ask us The Question as if they're the first ones ever to think to ask! Everyone acting like they've got some insight into us that we just... what? Haven't noticed ourselves? Are too deluded to recognise? Despite two decades of couples counselling? Have these fuckers ever _been_ to counselling? Cos in two decades, eventually all the skeletons get dug out, right? As if we didn't know what the _Real_ Question was all along? I'm not a fucking idiot. Neither are you. "

"Aw Scotty," she's giggling and gulping for air, brushing tears from her cheeks with one hand and pressing the other to her heart. She's such a dork. He loves nothing in the world so much as her giggle fits.

She clears her throat, and takes a steadying breath. "What brought this on?"

He feels calmer now, too; her calm is infectious. So he steps forward and gathers her into his arms to chuckle along with her as the last of her giggles subside. He loves nothing in the world so much as breathing into calm with her amidst the chaos.

She tucks herself into the crook of his neck, laughter fading back to heartbeats, the vibration passing back and forth like breath.

"You want to talk about it?" Her voice is muffled, her lips warm against his neck. "Or did you just need to vent?"

He sighs a deep sigh, presses a kiss to her temple and pulls back to look at her. "I mean. Can we? I think it's time?"

He scrubs his hands through his hair. It's getting long again and he knows she likes it that way, too. Because he's not a fucking idiot.

She extricates herself and settles on the hard, narrow couch with feet tucked under, patting the cushion beside her. She doesn't touch him when he sits down, but faces him with full attention. And she waits as he sits there wordlessly, wondering how to put it, after all this time.

Then he starts - "I've been waiting for the right moment but I think we should just..." - at the same moment she does - "Did you want me to go first? Because now you mention the Real Question, I..." - and they pull up short, together. Always together, even in awkwardness. He loves nothing in the world so much as being in sync with her.

She giggles again, and he gestures helplessly. "Is it OK if I just...?" She smiles, fond, and nods.

The Real Question. Such a little sentence, with their whole lives packed into it.

Could they be together _and_  be Olympic champions?

When the whole concept of the Olympics was still far off in the shimmering distance, there had been no clear answer. In the absence of one, and in light of some searing teenage evidence suggesting maybe not (Definitely not.), they'd decided to err on the side of caution. Because they might love each other, maybe, in that overwhelming teenage way, but they loved that dream of theirs even more. They were going to make it. They had to focus. They couldn't risk it. (We are not together. We are going to be people who date other people. No.)

And then suddenly, and for a long time, the answer _was_ clear. It was a no brainer for Vancouver. (All the old reasons, plus the operation. _We_ are still mending, too. No.)

It wasn't even on the table for Sochi. (All the old reasons, plus other real relationships, and confusion and Marina and pulling away from each other while we pull toward each other and maybe we're done after all and just that whole debacle, really. No.)

But this time, for Pyeongchang... this time. Choosing to come back, together. Moving to Montreal, together. Ending other relationships to make space for it, together. It had started to feel a little like they were deciding by default. (I've missed this, I've missed you, who cares about the old reasons anymore. Yes?)

They were still _them_ , though; always far too deliberate for default decisions. They wanted those gold medals so badly. They wanted it all, really. Absolutely everything. And what's two years after all this time? (Not _together_ , but not apart. Not with anyone else. Not _not_ , exactly, but not crossing the line that only we can see is still there. Not yet.)

But between the whirlwind of the gold and the shared rooms and the media obligations and the team obligations and the sponsor obligations and the hockey games and the sickness and the exhaustion and the not a single second to themselves, they still hadn't quite got round to finalising things.

He watches her watching him now, waiting as he takes a deep breath, and begins again.

"One day, when I look back at my life. Our life. You know what I'm going to be proud of?"

"Could it possibly be those Olympic medals?" She smiles that Tessa smile. The one that's his. He loves nothing in the world so much as that smile.

"Yeah those Olympic medals," he breathes out a laugh, so soft now. "But really, I'm proud that we won them _together_. That _we_ did it, you and me. Even with all the _stuff_  between us, and around us, even with everything we went through and worked through... _we_ did it. Together. And that we're _still_ together. That after all that, we still _want_ to be sitting here, together. That's what I'm proud of. That's what I'll remember. That _we_ were Olympic champions."

"We're Olympic champions," she breathes back at him, beaming now.

"We're Olympic champions," he nods and reaches out, his thumb brushing across a cheek still dewy with her laughter. "And so I think the answer is yes. I think it gets to be yes, now. Don't you?"

And he's so sure, in that moment, looking into gorgeous green eyes that crinkle at the corners.

He can see it all, absolutely everything, stretching out into the shimmering distance. And he can see it welling up again, from deep in her chest, for real this time.

"Scotty-". That sound. He loves nothing in the world so much as the woman who makes that sound. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

**Author's Note:**

> well now i've gone and done it. you can also yell at me on twitter where i'm @_im_ridiculous


End file.
